


Dabbling With Dibbley

by DownOnThePharm



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: F/M, Mary Sue ahoy!, Of course it’s not serious, Parody, The fic no one knew they needed, Utter lunacy, crackfic, y/n
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 05:04:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17892014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DownOnThePharm/pseuds/DownOnThePharm
Summary: You, the reader, enjoy an afternoon with everyone’s favorite Duke of Dork on the nano-Dwarf.





	Dabbling With Dibbley

**Author's Note:**

> There’s a lack of Reader x Character fics in our fandom. Let me change that, just so we can say we have one. 
> 
> Love to my Red Dwarf Discord peeps for encouraging this smeg!

You are a science officer aboard the JMC Mining Ship _Red Dwarf_. Although only twenty-three, you’ve had a long, distinguished career, and have discovered three new species of space weevil, the cure for the common cold, and a cheap, efficient means of using cold fusion to power AR units. You’re counted as one of the greatest scientific minds of all time, and your name will be inscribed in the celestial golden records of humanity alongside Einstein, Galileo, van Leeuwenhoek, and Thag the Firebringer, whose clan eventually forgave him for burning down their home forest when they realized that cooked deer tasted pretty good. 

When you gave the talk explaining the findings of your research into how the ship and crew were resurrected by nanobots, the JMC computer system recognized your brilliance and awarded you honorary directorship of the entire corporation. Blushing sweetly, you accepted, but only on the grounds that no one treat you any differently, as you’re still just little old Y/N from the block.

Everyone says that you’re a stunning beauty as well as brilliant, but you just don’t see it yourself. Your pouting, bee-stung lips are a little bit too pink and luscious and begging to be kissed to be proper. Your size 32-DD breasts strain at the buttons of your tight khaki uniform shirt, and your rounded, soft, pert bottom fills out your trousers just a smidgen too well. Your clear complexion of milk and roses is too sweetly feminine, you feel. Your long, silken hair that varies from raven’s wing black to platinum blonde depending on your moods and the time of month is slightly too divinely fragrant, and your wide, sea-green, violet, sky-blue, and gold eyes too mysterious and alluring. Despite your protests that you’re just an average girl, though, everyone on the ship assures you that you’re a galactic-class hottie, from Captain Dennis the Doughnut Boy down to the lowly third technicians. Silly people. You love them all.

Your locker is forever jammed full of perfumed love notes, romantic cards, and room keys, and your bunk strewn with flowers, candy, and jewelry. All of the tokens of affection and lust from the crew mean nothing to you, however. You already own the heart and soul of the sweetest, most lovable, cutest guy on board. He’s your Adonis in an anorak, your stud in plastic sandals, your divine Duke of Dork. You love your precious Duane Dibbley with all your heart. You’re gliding sensuously down the corridors to see him right now, swinging your curvaceous hips as you think of the pleasures this visit promises to bring.

Duane looks up from his book on animal track identification when you slither into the room, and lights up with a tremendous grin that threatens to split his face in two. He gushes, “Y/N! What are you doing here so early?”

“I missed you, Tiger,” you purr, settling into his lap and wrapping your soft arms around his shoulders, reeling him in for a mint toothpaste-tasting kiss. You wriggle your cute buns suggestively, and smile lovingly at him as he whines softly and wraps his hands around your tiny waist to pull you closer. You feel his man-meat hardening in his plaid polyester trousers and tighty-whities, and your womanly flower begins to secrete its sweet nectar in response. 

The two of you lovebirds continue to taste one another’s lips and skin as though sampling a delectable banquet. You bury your adorable, upturned nose in his coarse black hair as he nibbles your pink, shell-like ear with the tombstones he calls teeth. In between kisses, Duane pants, “Oh, Y/N! Y/N! I love you, Y/N!”

You coo, “How much do you love me, Duanie-poo?”

“More than a brand new Thermos! More than my favorite dandruff brush! Oh, Y/N, I love you so much that I bought a new ribbed triple-thick condom, just for you!” Duane uses his teeth to pop open the buttons of your uniform top, freeing your heaving, soft, symmetrical dirty girl-pillows encased in wisps of chartreuse lace. He groans, “Y/N!”, and buries his face between your boobies, softly motorboating them. You dissolve into soft fits of giggling as he gently takes a rosy nipple into his mouth and sucks it, because you’re ticklish. 

“Duane,” you breathe, “my lacy knickers are bathed in my sweet juices because I’m so ready for your thick organ! Let me take off my trousers - I need you to touch me!” You slide off his lap and do a sexy little strip-tease, slipping off your uniform, bra, and panties, until you stand before him wearing nothing but your cute little purple ankle socks and your dazzling smile. He moans, “Oh, Y/N” again, and stands up, fumbling clumsily with his trouser fastenings. You gently pull his hands away, and deftly remove his trousers and starched underwear, loosing the thick, monster love rod you so adore. 

You drop to your knees and begin to worship his manhood, swirling your tongue around the head as though you were savoring your favorite pistachio ice cream, and fondling his heavy love-spuds like you were feeling for soft spots on a couple of kiwis you were considering buying in the market. Duane runs his fingers through the silken waterfall of your hair, admiring its russet color that reflects your lust. “Y/N, let me taste you, my tender pumpkin,” he pleads. You can never resist that wheedling tone of voice when he begs so sweetly, so you climb up onto his desk and spread your legs for him, opening your golden pleasure-gates to the caress of his nimble tongue. Nips from his horse teeth and flicks of his tongue soon have you writhing in ecstasy. 

Just as you’re about to ascend to the heights of joy, Duane rises and scoots your bum towards him. You grasp his rock-hard staff and teasingly enrobe it in the finest prophylactic the JMC sex shop has to offer. Duane then plunges his man-sword into your tight, hot, slick sheath. You move together with ever-increasing speed, your body rising up to meet each powerful thrust. The only sound in the room is Duane’s calling out, “Y/N! Y/N! Yes!” You’re too overwhelmed with passion to speak, and can only gasp and whimper as he rocks you both to your peaks. You come together in a flood of man-milk and woman-nectar, gazing deeply into one another’s eyes, reinforcing your potent bond.

As Duane slumps forward, spent, into your welcoming embrace, you kiss him softly on his forehead. You then modify your tongue into its emotion-draining mouthpart form, and attach the suction disc to his sweaty forehead. You drink in the intoxicating tang of his satiety, desire, satisfaction, and love for you. You love him, too, in your own way. After all, an Emohawk couldn’t ask for a more succulent, delectable feast than this sweet, adoring little ball of emotions.

**Author's Note:**

> If you chucked a “Reader x Character” fic in a blender with a Mary Sue and a terrible sex scene from a cheesy romance novel, this is what would be barfed out.


End file.
